The unwritten poem, that I do not rhyme,
Under an unusual romanticism,
Infantilizes the soul and encouraging
The puerile behavior of the boy that I am.
Inattentive, I do not master your subtlety,
And he stays in me, inarticulate.
I become sober and rebuke the boy.
And so, repressed, I become arid.
It is essence in the air that I hardly breathe.
I do not pack me in the hot state of emotion.
I hold the boy and alone,
I stay silent. But you pack me anyway.
It's juvenile reason of my sigh,
You, girl, passing with a smile.
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